


oh my love (let me be your flower)

by ppperaltiagooo



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, TV Show, The Witcher - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppperaltiagooo/pseuds/ppperaltiagooo
Summary: Geralt finds her when she needs him most.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 135





	oh my love (let me be your flower)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! 
> 
> I recently finished watching The Witcher series on Netflix, and I absolutely adored it! Above all, I adored Geralt’s character (as always) and loved the way Henry Cavill played him. His acting was spectacular, and it doesn’t hurt that he is probably the best looking man on the planet! ;)
> 
> I decided to write a fanfiction based on only the show. I am currently playing The Witcher 3, but this fanfiction is based on only the show, which means the characters personalities, the plot, etc will all be based on only the show, so if I miss points or make things up or there are inaccuracies remember this is based only on season 1 of the show and the information they have provided us with so far! 
> 
> This is the first chapter. I haven’t properly edited it as I want to see if there is actually any interest in it so if there are mistakes here and there please forgive me. If you guys like it, please let me know by leaving kudos and comments and I will polish up this chapter and begin working on the next! 
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this and find it true to Geralt’s character, at least for the most part! :’)
> 
> PS: A rough timeline for this is between eps 6 and 7

She jolts awake, the wind blowing wildly around her. The sunlight is dazzlingly bright, almost blinding her instantly, so she keeps her eyes half-lidded as she raises her head from the bed of leaves beneath her. Her heart is pounding so loudly she can feel it in her head, and her mouth is as dry as the Sahara desert. She doesn't know what time it is, how long she has been asleep for or, more importantly, where in God's name she is.

The forest around her is densely packed with tall oak trees, the leaves on them turning shades of orange and brown and beginning to detach and fall from their branches. It must be Autumn, then. She knows something of her predicament, at least. Swiftly, she sits up, but she must have been lying down for a while because suddenly there is a sharp pain battering at her temples and she has to squeeze her eyes closed to keep from passing out.

When she finally reopens her eyes, the world around her is spinning. Her chest tightens as she realises she is lost. Well and truly lost. And as a matter of fact, she's not sure she even remembers anything about herself, anything about where she comes from or how she ended up here, in the middle of the forest. 

It takes her a few minutes to get to her feet, her eyes adjusting to the sunlight as she does. She stands still for a moment, trying to figure out what to do, when she hears a branch snapping behind her and spins around quickly. 

Her blood immediately runs cold. In front of her, just a few yards away, stands a grey wolf. And she might not remember much right now, but if she knows one thing for absolute certainty, she is damned sure that wolves aren't usually this size, aren't usually so huge. She tries to breath, tries to push down the fear rising inside of her as she glances around her for a weapon, a sharp branch, something, anything to defend herself with.

"Hey, it's okay," she coos as cooly as she can, holding out a hand in front of her instinctively, flat palm facing towards the vengeful-looking wolf. "It's fine. I'm not going to hurt you." She swallows hard, because that much is true. She couldn't possibly hurt it, not even if she wanted to, not even if she had to.

The wolf growls, it's upper lip curling backwards to reveal a row of sharp teeth. She shudders. They must be far from any towns or cities, because by the looks of it, this wolf is starving and hasn't had any scraps in weeks. She glances around her once more for anything she could use to fend the wolf off, but her brain isn't working properly and she can't seem to see anything at all around her that might help.

She locks eyes with the wolf, and it stares back at her, almost knowingly. Almost as though it is aware of her next move, aware of her plan. Like it is ready to chase her. She swings around as quickly as she can and begins to run, run as fast as her legs can take her.

There are trees everywhere, and her navigation skills seem to be off because she is soon disoriented, feeling impossibly lost, even more so than she did before, but she keeps going. Keeps pushing her way through the woods, and it takes her an entire minute before she realises that no, she is not wearing any shoes. She winces as sharp branches cut her feet, leaving splinters as they go.

She doesn't know how long she has been running when she finally stops, panting and falling to her knees. Her dress is torn to shreds, her feet burning and aching, and she can feel a lump in her throat beginning to form. She wants to cry, needs to cry, and she is less than a second away from beginning to when she hears the crunching of leaves in front of her. 

Her head snaps up, her eyes meeting with those of a beautiful chestnut mare. The mare looks to be well maintained, with a mane groomed to perfection, and she wonders for a moment when the last time she saw a horse actually was. Her mind can't seem to land on anything solid, can't seem to identify a particular memory. The horse nickers softly from a few yards in front of her, bowing it's neck to eat from the grass below itself, and she notices the mares rider for the first time. From where she is sitting, she can't see him very well, her vision blurred by what she presumes to be a mixture of adrenaline and physical exertion, but he is definitely there, staring back at her. 

She gasps for breath, gazing up at him through her hair and pondering his next move. He could kill her, right here, right now, and there'd be nothing she could do about it. Maybe he should. Maybe that's what she wants. She isn't sure, doesn't remember enough to know, and she certainly doesn't feel safe being here, wherever here is. 

The man sighs breathily, as though she is a burden to him already, even though he has not yet spoken a single word to her. He is still for a moment before he dismounts his horse, revealing to her that he is tall and well built, and as he treds closer to her, she can see that his hair is ice white, almost unnaturally so. 

She begins to shudder as he draws closer. His brow hangs low, giving him an angry, almost frightening look. She wonders, in the millisecond that it takes for him to walk closer to her, what he will do when he reaches her. What he will do to her.

The white-haired man crouches down before her, looking at her with a hint of worry in his eyes. She immediately takes note of his warm, orange eyes, and though he seems cold, they have a certain kindness to them; a softness. She doesn't know what comes over her, but immediately she feels safe, like she is in good hands. She should be scared, terrified even, and maybe she should run, but her brain tells her not to be afraid. Not to run from him. 

"Are you alright?" He asks, sounding more like asking is a job to him, a duty rather than something he does out of actual concern.

She swallows thickly and nods her head, unsure of how her voice would sound if she tried to speak.

"Are you hurt?" The man asks, glancing over her, his eyes locking onto the cuts on her ankles and feet. He looks back up to meet her gaze and raises his eyebrows. "Do you talk?"

She nods again, clears her throat and speaks, "I was chased by a wolf." The words come out weak and quiet, and she worries about how odd and defenceless she must look. She hopes the trust she has put in this man is not displaced. If it is, she will pay a very a high price, she knows this.

The man sighs again. "I can take you to the nearest village." He pauses and nods towards her mangled feet. "Get your wounds cleaned up for you. Can you stand?" 

"I think so," she says, wobbling to her feet. She winces, pain coursing through her and is unsure how she ran so far with her feet so torn up. 

The white-haired man watches her, a hint of concern in his eyes and she wonders what he must think of her, a girl in the woods with a torn up dress, no shoes and wounds all over her. Does he think she is stupid? Or is he merely worried for her? The worst part is, she can't even remember which feeling is right. She doesn't know why she came here, how she ended up passed out on the ground.

"You can ride with me," he tells her, nodding towards his horse. She looks at him for a moment, as if questioning him, wondering what his intentions are. Can I trust you? "You can trust me," he tells her, as if reading her mind, his face softening slightly. 

She's not sure she has much choice in the matter, but something tells her to listen to him.

With a small nod, she heads over to the horse, which is taller than she realised. Before she can even contemplate how she might mount the mare, she feels strong hands on her sides and she is hoisted upwards, her bottom landing in the saddle. She looks down as the white haired man helps her situate herself, and she is sure she sees him almost-smile as he climbs in front of her to control the horse.

—

As it turns out, it is quite a long journey to the nearest village. The man stays silent the whole time as he steers his mare gracefully through the mountainous countryside, and she realises that she doesn't even know his name, and that he hasn't even asked for hers. And that makes her remember. She doesn't even know her name, couldn't tell him even if he asked her. She swallows and squeezes her eyes closed nervously as she grips the sides of the saddle, focusing on how her pelvis sways in time with the horse beneath her. 

When they finally reach the village, the man looks over his shoulder at her. "We've arrived," he tells her.

She nods her head slowly, not bothering to voice a response. It's not that she's intimidated by him as such, more that she doubts his motives. And she knows nothing about him, other than the fact that he has the snow-white hair of an eighty-year-old but the face of a thirty-five-year old. What age is she? She doesn't remember. She doesn't remember anything at all.

The man halts his horse right outside of a pub, dismounting gracefully with a soft thud. He turns around and looks up at her, holding his mares reins in one hand.

"Let me help you down," he says. As before, he sounds dutiful rather than caring, though something about the way his face softens when he glances between her beaten up feet and her eyes shows her that he cares, at least a little. That he doesn't like to see people in pain.

She simply looks back at him and swings one leg over the horses back, then doesn't swat his hands away when he places them on her hips to help her get down.

"Well," she says when she has her feet planted on the ground, "thank you. For bringing me here, that is." 

She turns to walk away, isn't sure where she's going but knows she needs to do something, anything. She needs to remember, needs to know how she ended up here, who she is. She takes one step before she feels a large hand on her shoulder.

"Wait," the man says gruffly, and she glances over her shoulder to look at him. "Let me buy you a drink." 

She isn't sure why she agrees, but one minute she is ready to walk away from the white-haired fellow and the next she is walking into the tavern with him. The room is crowded and loud, filled with the smell of sweat and alcohol, and she feels she might vomit, if only for lack of food. She doesn't know when she last ate. It could've been days ago. She glances up at the man, but he is looking straight ahead, walking towards the bar. She follows him silently, quite nearly enchanted by the way he slams his fist down on the wooden bar to gain the attention of the staff.

"Two ales please," he mumbles quietly, as if he hopes no one will hear them, but suddenly, just as soon as he has spoken, the pub quietens. Within a second, it is quiet enough that she bets she could hear a pin drop. It strikes her as strange at first, but it becomes even eerier to her when she realises that most of the people within the small room are staring at him. The man who rescued her.

It takes until the ales have been placed on the bar before them for the noise in the tavern to return to normal. He carries both of them, one in each hand, to a small wooden booth, and they sit across from each other, where he pushes the ale across the table towards her.

"Thanks." She says blandly, still trying to make up her mind, to decide whether or not she trusts him, especially after seeing the way everyone in the tavern reacted to his presence. She pauses for a moment, watching him take a long gulp of his drink, then she speaks again, "What was that about?"

"I'm a Witcher," he tells her, as if she's meant to know what that means. She raises her eyebrows at him, silently signalling that she doesn't have a clue what that is. "A monster-killing-mutant, some might say. The villagers don't much like me."

She nods slowly, trying to act calm, but her mind is working overdrive. A monster-killing-mutant? The worst part is, she can't even remember if that is normal to her, if that is something she knew before... well, before she forgot everything.

"I see," she says, and then takes a sip of the frothy ale before her. It is bland and bitter, but it is fairly cool so it feels pleasant slipping over her tongue and down her throat. "You got a name?" 

"Geralt," he says, and she takes note of how deep his voice is. "Geralt of Rivia. And you?" 

She purses her lips, trying not to seem panicked. She isn't yet sure whether she wants to tell him, whether she wants him to know that she doesn't remember a goddamn thing about herself, least of all her name. "I-" she begins, and he chuckles gruffly. It's so deep it vibrates through the table, rumbling her.

"You don't want to tell me," he says with a nod and a small smile. "I get it. I'll call you... Sage." 

She raises an eyebrow, confused. He is a charmer alright, but she isn't sure where he whipped the name out from. "Sage?" 

"Your eyes," he says, nodding towards her, and she realises yet another thing she doesn't know about herself. She doesn't remember what colour her eyes are. "They are as green as the sage plant itself." 

She feels a small smile tugging at her lips and uses a swig of her ale to cover it up. "I like it," she tells him, and she is sincere. Sage. It's pretty.

He smiles ever-so-slightly for a moment before it drops from his face and he narrows his eyes at her slightly. "So, Sage. What were you doing out in the middle of the woods all alone?" 

"I-" she begins, unsure of what to say, then mumbles out the rest, "I went for a walk." 

"With no shoes on?" He asks. 

"I lost them."

He stares at her for a second and she isn't quite sure if he believes her. He looks suspicious to say the least, and she isn't quite sure how to explain herself if he calls her bluff, but then he merely hums quietly and says, "It's not safe out there. Especially not for a lone woman."

She swallows nervously and gives him a stiff nod. "I understand. I won't do it again."

"Do you have coin?" He asks slowly, then proceeds to drain the rest of his glass.

She freezes up, patting the pockets of her dress to check, her blood running cold when she realises he probably doesn't. "I don't know," she admits quietly. "I don't think so."

Geralt inspects her for a moment, his tongue darting out the wet his lips. "Come to the local inn with me. I can clean and bandage your feet and offer you a place to stay for the night." He pauses, gesturing to her feet. "In the morning, I will buy you new boots."

She narrows her eyes at him slightly. As of yet, she can't tell exactly what he wants from her, what he expects, and she can't tell even what she wants, what she needs. Her eyes trail the outlines of his face, looking deep into the pool of his eyes, searching for any ill intentions, for anything that should scare her, but his gaze is soft, relaxed, caring even.

"Thank you," she says softly, unsure of what else to say to him.

His lips curve into a tiny smile and he gives her a curt nod. "Are you going to finish that?" He asks, gesturing towards her ale, and she shakes her head rapidly. He lifts the stein mug from in front of her and drains it of its contents. Then, he asks, "Are you hungry?" 

She wonders if she should admit to being hungry and let him buy her food or if she should lie in the name of politeness, but her stomach is churning and growling, so she peeks up at him through her hair. "A little, yes."

He smiles again. "Then let's get you something to eat, mystery girl."

—

By the time she and Geralt leave the tavern, she is stuffed full of warm, delicious food and is feeling much happier in herself. Geralt drank more than a few pints of ale but he doesn't seem to be affected by the alcohol at all, doesn't even seem a tiny bit tipsy. He looks down at her feet almost worriedly as she walks along the gravelled pathing, but he doesn't voice his concern. She pretends it doesn't hurt as much as it does.

It's dark outside now, the streets much quieter than they were before and almost completely void of people. Geralt's chestnut mare is still standing exactly where she was left, as if waiting on their return. He approaches her and takes her reins in his hands, beginning to lead her.

"What is her name?" Sage asks, walking beside Geralt and gazing over at the shiny horse.

"Roach." He replies blandly, but reaches a hand out to stroke his mares face gently. 

Sage debates telling him how beautiful his horse is, but it seems silly considering. In fact, most things seem silly when she thinks about telling this man about them. Especially the fact that she has forgotten her entire life and who she is. 

Geralt pays a man standing by a small row of stables and hands Roach over to him. Sage stands a fair way away, but she can see the tenseness in both men's faces, and she wonders why exactly people seem to have such a problem with Geralt's kind. Maybe it is his nature more than his mutations that bother the townsfolk. 

Geralt leads Sage to a nearby inn wordlessly, and she begins to feel nervous when they step inside the door. She wonders yet again what he expects from her, if he expects sex. She isn't sure how she would react, how she should react, to advances from him. He is handsome of course, gorgeous in fact, but she can't seem to think straight, can't seem to get her thoughts together, and she wonders what will happen tomorrow when he takes his leave. Whether she will be safe without him and what she should do when he is gone. 

"A room for tonight please," Geralt tells the woman behind the counter, handing over a bag filled to the brim with golden coins. Sage imagines monster-slaying must pay well, especially by the expression the inn-owner makes when she receives the bag. Geralt clears his throat and then says, "Make it one with a bath."

—

The room is quite large and dark, lit up by the warm yellow glow of a few candles scattered around. The mahogany-wood furniture doesn't do much to fill the space up, leaving a huge empty gap surrounding the wooden bath, next to the double bed (she wonders if they are both going to sleep in it, side by side). 

"You can get in," Geralt says gruffly, nodding his head towards the bath.

Sage blushes crimson. She wrings her hands together nervously, unsure of what exactly he means. Does he want her to get in the bath right now? In front of him? Naked? "Oh... I..." she stutters, quite unsure of what to say, but to be honest, she can't remember if, before a few hours ago, she was shy or if she had confidence. She can't remember if she'd be embarrassed by her body (partly because she can't remember what it looks like) or if she'd be nervous for a man to see her naked (she suspects Geralt would be a whole other story anyway). 

Geralt smirks as if he senses her apprehension, as if he often has this affect on woman. He raises an eyebrow at her. "What's wrong? Shy?" He pauses, his face and voice softening instantly. "I only want to clean your wounds. I swear to you, Sage."

She considers telling him no, that she can clean them herself, but she knows how painful it will be, especially with all the gravel which has now buried itself deep in her wounds. And anyway, when she looks up into his eyes, all she can see is the purest of intentions, as if the gentlest man in the world is standing before and not a 'mutant-monster-slayer'. She breaths deeply once, then shakes her head. "I'm not shy," she tells him.

She takes a moment before walking over to the tub, looking in the slim mirror on the wall adjacent from it. For the first time, she sees herself. She is fairly short, or at least shorter than Geralt, and under her thick, heavy dress she can't quite tell exactly what body-shape she has. Her clothing strikes her as important. It looks well made, expensive even. Her hair is long and chestnut brown, and she wonders why a man as handsome as Geralt even gave her the time of day, because it is wildly knotted and there are twigs and leaves caught in it. She glances away from the mirror quickly, because she is too far away to properly see her facial features and she isn't sure she wants to anyway.

She feels a cold hand on her back and tries to relax, but it's hard to ignore the feeling of fear, the idea that Geralt could do anything he wanted to her and she wouldn't be able to stop him. She trusts him, she really does or else she wouldn't be here right now, but she hasn't even known him for three hours.

Although really, that's just as long as she's known herself.

"Would you like me to unlace you?" He asks softly, and she swallows nervously before nodding. Geralt chuckles deeply in her ear. "Don't be nervous."

"I'm not nervous," she replies defiantly. 

He chuckles again and she can feel it rumble across her shoulder, tickling her neck and making her hairs stand up on end, but he doesn't speak. She feels his fingers working along her dress, from her shoulder blades down the small of her back and into the space just above her buttocks. The room is filled with silence for a few moments before she feels the dress loosen and she has to hold it on from the front.

She turns to face him swiftly so he doesn't see her bare back for too long and he is gazing down at her, his eyes on fire. His stare is so intense that she has to look away, and he clears his throat quickly, as if to snap himself out of... whatever that was. "Done," he mumbles quietly. 

"Turn around," she murmurs, using her free hand to gesture a spin to him. With the other hand, she grips steadily onto the front of her dress, determined not to reveal herself to him, at least not yet. This feels much too intimate, but not wrong. Though he is staring through her soul with eyes so intense they may as well be burning right into her flesh, there is something so pure about him, something kind, something that tells her he really does want to clean up her wounds, that he doesn't expect more.

Though that doesn't prove he doesn't want more. He stares at her for a moment longer, his eyes lingering around her collarbone, before he murmurs a 'hmm' and turns around. 

She takes a deep breath before dropping her dress around her ankles, then her underwear, revealing her bare form. Across the room in the mirror, all she can see is that she is muddy, with dirt covering almost every bare inch of her skin. How long was she in that forest before she woke up? She shivers at the thought. 

Tiptoeing closer to the round bathtub, she skims her fingers along the waters surface. It isn't hot, but it certainly isn't freezing either, and Sage considers that a bonus. 

"I'm getting in now," she tells Geralt quietly, and she's not sure why she does, why she feels she needs to voice her movements to him. She hears him hum again in response, and then she lifts a leg and places her foot carefully in the water.

She hisses, clutching the side of the tub as the water stings the tender skin of her foot painfully. Before now, it was as if the adrenaline in her body had prevented her from feeling the true extent of her pain, but now, bare to the world, her foot dipping into the the tub as the water penetrates all of her cuts and scrapes, she feels almost as though she might faint. 

"You alright?" Geralt asks quickly as he hears her hiss. 

She nods quickly, before realising that he can't see her. "Yes," she manages.

"Do you require assistance?"

"No." 

He grunts softly in recognition and she takes a deep breath as though to prepare herself, squeezing her eyes closed as she plunges her foot further into the water. She cries out involuntarily, her ears ringing as she tries to push through the pain.

"Are you su-"

"I'm sure," she interrupts Geralt firmly. She doesn't want to rely on him, doesn't want him to think she is weak, because after all, tomorrow, after he is gone, she will be all alone, with only her own protection. She wants him to know she can handle it and, more importantly, she wants to know herself that she can handle it, but she didn't mean to be harsh, didn't mean to snap at him. "Sorry. I mean, I can handle it. I can handle myself."

He doesn't respond, and she isn't sure whether he is annoyed at her, isn't sure whether she even cares. She allows her foot to find the bottom of the tub, then she uses her arms to leverage her body in, slowly lowering her remaining foot and the rest of herself into the bathtub. She breathes heavily, trying to control herself, to push through the pain that shoots up her legs and into her many cuts and scrapes. 

When she is as fully submerged as she can be, she clears her throat gently then crosses her arms over her chest to cover her breasts. 

"I'm... I'm in," she stutters, glancing over at Geralt. 

He turns around, his eyes dragging upwards from the visible space under her breasts until they reach her eyes. He chuckles ever so slightly, raises one eyebrow and slowly approaches her, grabbing a spare white sheet from the bed as he goes. He holds it out to her and she narrows her eyes at him slightly, confused.

"To help maintain your modesty," he explains calmly, his voice low and smooth as he holds the sheet out towards her.

"Oh," she says, unsure whether she feels disappointed or relieved. "Thank you, Geralt."

He glances away as she removes one hand from her breasts to quickly snatch the sheet and cover her chest with it. She tries to keep it out of the water as best as she can but it dips in slightly, floating in the water in front of her.

Geralt slowly looks back at her, confirms she is covered then heads towards a drawer on the other side of the room. He opens it and begins to rummage through. "There are usually bandages in here," he explains calmly.

"Do you stay here often?" Sage asks, studying the way his back muscles tense and un-tense as his arms move.

"On occasion," he replies bluntly. He seems to be a man of few words, which is something that doesn't bother Sage, especially right now when her brain is already struggling to process everything that has happened so far today.

She opens her mouth to speak, but she isn't sure what she wants to say. Part of her wants to tell him, the more logical part of her, that she doesn't remember anything, that she doesn't know who she is or what she is doing here, where she comes from or who she knows. But then another part of her, a part of her that is bubbling right on the surface, a scared part, tells her no. It tells her not to tell him, because she doesn't know if she can trust him and anyway, she doesn't want him hanging around her out of pity. She doesn't need pity. She just needs to figure this out.

So she pressed her mouth back into a tight line, pushing down the urge to speak.

When Geralt turns back around to her, he is clutching a ball of white bandage in his hand. She doesn't imagine that it is the most sterile, or that his hands are the cleanest, but it's the only thing she's got, and that's better than nothing. 

"How are your wounds?" He asks gruffly, kneeling down on the ground in front of the tub so he is directly across from her. 

"They feel okay," she replies honestly, realising that the sting she felt when she first submerged her feet in the water is no longer there. 

"Let me see," Geralt instructs her, gesturing to her foot. 

Sage lifts it out of the water carefully and props it up on the edge of the tub as gently as she can. Geralt reaches out to touch a particularly nasty wound on the ball of her foot, and even the soft tickle of his fingertips is enough to make her hiss and cringe backwards from him.

"Ouch," she mumbles, trying desperately not to cry out again like she did earlier.

"Sorry," he mutters, reaching to his side for a cloth. "I'll be as gentle as I can." 

She nods and watches as he lifts the cloth to her foot and begins to gently pat her wounds dry. It's painful, but not nearly as painful as it was before. After a few minutes, he is well into bandaging up her feet, and it feels comforting to know that there is at least a little bit of protection there to keep her wounds dry and clean. 

"Almost done," he tells her as he tares off a piece of bandage with ease. He glances up at her. "This is going to scar."

She nods with a frown, though the future aesthetics of her feet are not really the most important thing weighing on her mind right now. "I know."

"Done," he says finally, admiring his handy work as he removes his hands from her feet. He stands up, looking directly at her. "You're going to have to let me help you out."

"I'll manage just fine," she insists, though only just now has she realised getting out of the tub on her own will mean soaking through her bandages, even if she is as careful as can be.

Geralt merely laughs at her and moves towards her. "I won't look if you don't want me to," he tells her, and before she can protests he rolls up his sleeves and lifts her out of the tub. She squeals and tenses up as he catches her off guard, the cold air hitting her wet body and making her curl in on herself. He laughs again, looking straight ahead as he quickly turns around and places her on the bed. 

Sage immediately scrambles to cover herself with the larger white sheet on the bed, wrapping it tightly round her body before Geralt looks back at her. She blushes profusely, averting her gaze as she chuckles deeply once more.

"Now it's your turn to look away," he says, and when Sage looks back up his hand has found its way to the top of his trousers. She must look shocked, because he has an amused little smile on his face as he tells her, "I haven't bathed in at least a week. May as well take advantage of the tub." He pauses, popping open the top button, then using the same spinning gesture she did before. "Now look away. No peeking."

She brings herself to smile, if only just a little bit, then flops down on her back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She listens as his clothing falls to the floor, hearing the water splash as he climbs into the tub, and it takes everything in her not to look over at him. There's no doubting that he is a handsome man, and maybe in her confusion, after he so selflessly rescued her and after watching him tenderly dress her wounds, she has found herself slightly attracted to him. 

Sage struggles to keep her eyes pointed up at the ceiling as Geralt baths only a few meters away from her. He's shown no signs of being at all romantically interested in her, and she knows she shouldn't jump to conclusions, shouldn't imagine scenarios in her head. And above all, she feels guilty, guilty for even thinking about how sexy the man across the room from her is when she has forgotten literally everything that has occurred in her life before a couple hours ago.

Looking desperately around the room for something to do, her eyes catch on the mirror across the room from her. She stands up from the bed slowly, making sure to keep the sheet wrapped around her tightly, and gently pads towards her reflection. 

Geralt was right about her eyes being green. They are, in fact, very green. Not pure and bright like the summer leaves of a tree, but dark and muddy, almost hazel coloured but not-quite. She runs a hand through her warm brown hair, and begins to pick through it, untying the knots and removing as many twigs and other forest debris as she can. She studies her face, the soft roundness of her cheeks, the arch of her dark eyebrows and the outline of her small, rosebud lips.

She spins around quickly, pulling the final leaf from her hair as Geralt sloshes out of the bath. He has the towel she used earlier to cover her breasts tied around his waist, his muscled chest and strong arms bared for her to see. The ends of his snow-white hair are damp, as if they were only just touching the bath water, and he is looking at her curiously from across the room.

"So," he begins, a small smirk on his face as he raises a brow at her, "are you going to tell me your real name yet?" 

Inside her head, she panics. "I like Sage," she replies cooly, trying to seem calm.

Geralt purses his lips and seems to consider it for a moment, before he nods his approval. "Sage it is, then."

She nods, keeping the sheet wrapped firmly around her as she sits down on the side of her. She looks up at Geralt, tilting her head slightly. "Do you..." she starts, unsure whether her question is silly or not and pondering whether she should actually ask it, "do you sleep?"

Geralt laughs breathily, walking over until he is stood directly in front of her, so she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "I do sleep," he says, then pauses. "Or I'm supposed to."

"You're supposed to?" Sage asks, looking for an explanation. 

"I have trouble sometimes," he explains, then sits down on the edge of the bed beside her. 

They both turn their heads to look at one another, and they are so close Sage would only have to lean in a few inches before their noses could touch.

"I see," she replies shakily, grasping at the edge of the sheet nearest her thigh nervously.

"How are your feet?" Geralt asks, knitting his eyebrows together and radiating what might actually be concern.

"They're okay," she says, and looking at him, hearing him ask her how she is, she can't imagine why the people in the tavern seemed to have an issue with him being there. She can't imagine how anyone could hate Geralt of Rivia, Witcher or not. "Why don't the townsfolk like you?"

The corner of Geralt's lips twitch downwards for a moment before he corrects himself, as if he doesn't like to be reminded of this reality. "A lot of people think all Witcher's are unnatural, that I am an abomination." He pauses. "They think we are emotionless, cold, heartless - sadistic even."

Sage shakes her head softly, looking into Geralt's warm eyes. She feels pained that he has had to experience this, that he has had to go through this. "You aren't anywhere near heartless," she murmurs, the whole world blurring around them. All she can focus on is the white-haired man in front of her.

"Haven't you heard of a Witcher before?" He asks quietly, but he doesn't much seem to be paying attention to what he is saying and seems to be focusing much more on Sage instead.

She feels herself stiffen up slightly, as she does every time he asks her a question she doesn't know how to answer. "I guess..." she wracks her brain for an answer, an excuse. "Maybe."

He chuckles breathily, his eyes flicking down from her eyes to her lips. Her breath hitches in her throat as she feels his hand softly rest on her lower thigh, and he reaches up to stroke a strand of hair out of her face. Sage isn't sure what they are doing, what either of them are thinking in this moment. She doesn't know how to respond, isn't sure whether he is about to kiss her. Her heart is racing, her vision blurring.

And then it hits her.

A sharp, stabbing pain shoots its way through her head. She cries out, reaching up to clutch her head, shocked by the pain rattling around inside of her skull. She falls backwards onto the floor, sees Geralt reach out to try and catch her before she squeezes her eyes shut and curls up into a ball on the wooden floor. The pain consumes her and she shrieks as loudly as she can.

A flash. A flash of something. A memory? A man, his face covered by a black cloak. A woman screaming. A young boy crying. Sage feels an ache all over, a pain and sadness she can't describe, and then the man is there again, laughing. And she knows. She just knows. 

For whatever reason, he is coming after her. And he is close.

The pain subsides all of a sudden, and it takes her until then to realise that Geralt is on the floor beside her, gripping her arms and calling out to her. She pants heavily, shaking as she comes to, opening her eyes to look up at him. He looks equal parts concerned and confused. 

"Sage," he says firmly. "Did I hurt you?" He sounds almost entirely sure that he didn't, but ever so slightly doubtful. She shakes her head rapidly, unsure that she could speak through the intense tremble of her body and jittering of her teeth. "Fuck. What the hell happened?"

Her eyes widen as she stares up at him, her mind willing her to speak but her body shutting down. She opens and closes her mouth a few times like a fish. She isn't sure her vocal cords can function right now and anyway, she doesn't know what to tell him. She has been lying to him all day, but keeping this from him seems foolish now.

"Tell me what happened," he says softly, then more firmly, "You can trust me. I swear." He sounds like he knows she has something to tell him, like he can tell something darker is going on here. She imagines he's probably seen a lot of shady things.

"We aren't safe," she manages shakily, her voice very small and quiet. She clutches onto his arm, her body violently convulsing.

"You're safe with me," Geralt tells her, his voice confident. "Tell me what the hell is going on." 

"I haven't been honest with you," Sage admits, the words leaving her mouth before she can even make a decision on whether to tell him or not. Geralt stares back at her, his eyes filling with confusion. "It's not that I don't want to tell you my name. I don't know my name." 

"You don't..." he begins, trailing off as though he is trying to figure it out.

"I don't remember anything," she wobbles out, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. "I know nothing about myself. I don't know my name. I don't know who I am. I don't know how I ended up passed out in the middle of the fucking forest."

Geralt is staring at her, watching as she descends into sobs, clutching his arm and sobbing into him. "Hmm," he grunts out, as though trying to process the information.

"I saw him. I just... I saw someone. He's coming for me. I know he is." Sage sobs. "I can't explain it. I just know." She really can't explain it, can't figure out which part of her remembers him or how she knows he is searching for her. She can just tell.

"Who is?" Geralt asks, taking her by the arm and using his free hand to push her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Who is looking for you?" 

"I don't know who he is," Sage says quietly, trying her best to control herself, to stop crying. She doesn't know what came over her, but something inside of her is deeply upset by the image of the man. "I just know that he's... he's dark - evil." Her breath wobbles and she breaks back down into tears, her face heating up in dread and partly, though she hates to admit it, embarrassment. Her life seems to be in danger and she doesn't even remember why or how, but stupidly, she feels embarrassed about crying in front of Geralt, exposing herself and her vulnerability in front of him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she chokes out.

Geralt sighs gruffly. "You remember nothing?" He asks for confirmation, and Sage nods through her tears. "Nothing at all?" 

"Nothing," she murmurs. 

Geralt goes silent for moment, looking as though he is pondering his options as Sage continues to cry. She wouldn't be surprised, wouldn't blame him if he ran for the hills, if he took off and left her to deal with this on her own. After all, it is her mess. She figures that's probably what he's doing right now, trying to decide if this is worth it or not. If she is worth it or not. She couldn’t tell him the right answer even if she tried. Is she a good person? Or is she a bad person? She doesn’t even know, and searching through her brain just brings more pain, more worry when she still can’t recall even a single memory. The cloaked mans face is still etched into her head, making her shiver.

Suddenly, Geralt rises to his feet. She tenses up, sure that he is about to leave, about to walk out the door and never look back. She gazes up at him through her tears and his face softens slightly.

“We’ll figure this out in the morning,” he says simply, then reaches out towards her. “You must be tired.”

“You’re... you’re going to help?” She stutters, stumbling over her words. “You’re going to help me?” She is half-surprised and half-not, considering how kind he has been to her already today.

“I’m a Witcher. It’s what we do.” He mutters. “Let me help you up.” He extends his hand towards Sage.

Sage takes his hand and allows him to pull her to her feet, recovering every part of herself with the sheet. “I should get my clothes back on,” she says, breathing through her nose to calm herself and using the back of her hand to wipe away her tears.

Geralt nods. “If you’d like,” he agrees, as though he wants her to be comfortable. Sage offers him a soft smile to show her thanks and turns to walk towards the pile of her clothes. As she turns, Geralt grabs her arm gently and says the name he has chosen for her, “Sage.” 

She turns back to look at him, confused and a little worried that he might be about to abandon her after all. “Yes?” 

His gaze is intense, boring right through her eyes and deep into her soul. “I’ll keep you safe,” he says confidently, and his grip on her arm tightens slightly. “I promise.”

—

When Sage has gotten dressed back into her under-vest and long skirt (which is quite beautiful really, besides being torn to shreds, and it seems a shame to wear it to bed), she turns around to see Geralt laying on his side on the bed, still topless but with the sheet still perfectly cover his nether-region. She crosses her arms over her chest as she walks towards the bed and sits on the edge, her back to him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“For what?” He asks her.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, running a hand through her hair. “For lying to you, I guess. And for dragging you into this.” She turns her body to face him. “You can still go, you know. I’ll be okay.” She pauses. “I’ll figure it out.” 

Geralt chuckles disbelievingly, as if he doesn’t quite understand her. “Already told you, I’m a Witcher. It’s my job to fight monsters, whether they’re men you see in your head or werewolves. I’m not going anywhere till we figure out who you are and how to keep you safe.” 

Sage nods slowly, then stifles a yawn with the back of her hand. “Mmm,” she hums. “Tired.”

“Lay down and sleep,” Geralt tells her, and she raises an eyebrow at him. How does he expect her to sleep right now? In the midst of this? “I’ll stay awake and make sure no one unwanted turns up.” 

“Geralt, you don’t have to-”

“Don’t be foolish,” he says, putting a stop to her sentence firmly. “Sleep.” 

She stares at him for a moment before nodding slowly and arranging herself in bed. It is warmer out than it was earlier in the evening, so she says curled into herself, her back still facing him. She can feel his gaze on her every few moments, watching her, quite possibly making sure she isn’t up to something. She wishes she knew enough to be up to something. She wishes she knew something, anything. 

It doesn’t take Sage long to fall asleep under the watchful, protective eye of her Witcher companion.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for reading and I very much hope you enjoyed the first chapter! :’)


End file.
